Cordon Blurgh!

    Weaving down the tiny Faversham street, past the oldsters with their walking frames, walking sticks and in their electric wheely-bins, I found a little cafe for lunch. I crawled on my belly and elbows in through the one-foot high doorway and perched myself onto one of the minute doll chairs inside. The waitress came to the table and I ordered the moussaka. She looked at me as if I was retarded and then (in)corrected me.
    "So, you'd like the Mow-sakki, would you?"
    As I waited I looked out of the postage stamp window at the now-familiar ancients shuffle-creeping along the road. The meal arrived. She placed it in front of me.
    "Ooh, I'll bring you a piece of bread so you can mop up all that lovely gravy". She was referring to the one-inch of orange-coloured oil that floated in the bowl over the large lumps of grey eggplant. My tepid coffee was then brought to the table in what appeared to be a tall flower vase, complete with ornate curly handles on either side of it. Wondered whether I should ask for a daffodil to shove in it.

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